Addict
by cumberpatchcats
Summary: Rehabilitation patient #22100: Sherlock Holmes-addicted to sex, drugs, and his therapist Doctor Watson.
1. Chapter 1

Perhaps the worst thing in life is not watching your younger brother spiral down a path of violent self-destruction, but walking in on him pale, thin, and practically dead.

Mycroft had put up with Sherlock's addictions. He had learned to accept the fact that his brother was always going have bloodshot eyes and trembling fingers whenever they met-which was not often. Mycroft had grown to tolerate the horrible stench of marijuana that permanently lingered in Sherlock's lonely flat. He had even on occasion been called to pick up his brother from various opium dens and drug houses. He knew Sherlock often went home with boys and girls alike, indulging himself in every sense of the word. By no means was he happy with Sherlock's life choice, but on that note he was also not going to interfere.

But when Mycroft had stumbled into Sherlock's flat after an unusually long period of silence and unanswered text messages, the horribly graphic image of his brother collapsed on the cold, hard floor, pale and unconscious with a needle in his arm was enough to make Mycroft finally stand up and do what Sherlock had never wanted him to do.

"He's lucky he was found when he was," the doctor had told Mycroft. "He probably wouldn't have lasted the night."

"What was he on?" Mycroft asked, his voice stern and calculating.

The doctor let out a deep sigh of contemplation. "Any drug you name, he was probably on it."

"Oh god," Mycroft groaned.

Mycroft stayed by his brother's side all through the night, the younger Holmes never once stirring. He looked dead. Cold, colorless, gaunt, and dead. How he had ever been able to survive on his own like this was beyond Mycroft's comprehension.

When morning came, duty called and Mycroft could not be bothered with his seditious next of kin, and so he left the hospital with specific, quite demanding, instructions for Sherlock's doctors.

Sherlock awoke from his brief coma for about five minutes before his eyes grew too heavy and he fell into the dark once more.

Three days later, he was completely up and alert.

"Your brother has requested that you be moved to a rehabilitation facility."

Oh

Hell

No.

It took three nurses and a surgeon to successfully hold Sherlock down as he kicked and struggled and screamed in protest. He was strapped to the bed and ordered to be watched 24/7 after being labeled a dangerous disturbance. And in the end, he still went to rehab.

* * *

Rehabilitation centers are known less for being structural and creative and more for being dull, boring, and smelly. Drug addicts especially tended to be the dullest, most boring, and the foulest smelling. Typically, junkies were part of the less intelligent group of society.

Sherlock, despite being an addict, hated addicts with a strong passion. Thus, he silently spited and cursed Mycroft as he was dragged all the way from the hospital to the nearest rehabilitation center, a large white building designed especially for addicts of all sorts.

There, they strapped a plastic wristband to Sherlock's unhealthily thin wrist that read "Sherlock Holmes: Addiction to sex and alcohol."

Sherlock spent his first night at rehab trying to claw the disgusting bracelet off.

In the morning, he was fed toast and jam with a side of methadone and given a new bracelet to replace the one he had tried to destroy. He was watched with intent until every last crumb had been licked off his plate, and then he was sent to play with the other children.

He chose to sit in the corner and sulk.

Every so often, someone would walk up to him and ask his name. He would respond with cruel things such as "I don't know, why don't you ask your dead mother?" or "Perhaps the reason your husband cheated on you was because of your annoying curiosity," which of course lead him to gain a bad reputation quite quickly.

And in the afternoon, he met Doctor Watson.

"Hello there, Mr. Holmes, please sit down." John Watson gestured to a comfortable chair opposite from here.

"Sherlock," was the response.

"_Mr. Holmes_," Watson insisted. He then cleared his throat. "Really, take a seat. I'm Doctor John Watson, and I'll be your personal counselor throughout the duration of your stay here."

"John," Sherlock nodded.

"_Doctor Watson_," John repeated.

"Fine," Sherlock snapped, reluctantly taking the seat across from his so-called counselor. "_Doctor Watson_."

John cleared his throat once again and held a pen to his clipboard. "So, I suppose I'll start by going over the conditions of our visits. For two weeks you are to see me daily, and from then on I'll decide the frequency of your visits based on what condition I feel you are in. You are allowed to discuss anything you wish. If I ask something too personal or uncomfortable, you are not obligated to answer. At the same time, you are not allowed to ask me anything involving my personal life. We have a strict doctor-patient confidentiality agreement, so anything that is said in this room will not leave this room. Is that all right?"

"I don't know, doctor Watson," Sherlock mocked him. "It's going to be very difficult to put my recovery in your hands when you can hardly handle your own sister's addiction."

John immediately froze. He stared straight at Sherlock's smug face and practically dropped his clipboard. "How…?" Never mind that Sherlock was already breaking the rule about not prying into John's personal business.

Sherlock sat back and rolled his eyes. "The envelope on your desk. It's addressed to John Watson and not Mr. Watson, so it has to be someone close. The pile of letters underneath it reveals it to be someone _very_ close, most likely familial. The handwriting is feminine, yet shaky, so some female in your immediate family harbors an addiction. Based on the sheer number of letters, you haven't been writing back to her, probably because you're ashamed. Embarrassed that, despite your blooming career in helping individuals overcome their addictions, you have yet to help her overcome her own. Your embarrassment indicates more of a younger sister than a mother, as one does not tend to give up on their mothers that easily."

Half of John was fuming. The other half was bewildered. Nonetheless, his patient had broken protocol and it could not be dealt with lightly. "You…" John began, stammering around for the words. "Don't question my ability to counsel. I am perfectly qualified and seventy four percent of all my patients have successfully reentered society without relapsing. My sister is a hopeless cause-but that's not what we're going to talk about. My main priority right now is you, okay? So let's keep the subject on you and your recovery."

"See," Sherlock started. "I think that's where we have different intents." He leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees and fingertips pressed together. "I am here against my will. I did not happen to wander in here or have some sort of epiphany that made me decide to turn my life around. My brother put me in here, and let me just say, _Doctor Watson_, that I have no intention of becoming clean. I do not want to sober up. I am perfectly content with drugs in my life and nothing you ever say to me will make me change my mind."

John huffed up a bit. "Well, regardless, as long as you are in my care, I have given my sworn oath to get you clean whether you like it or not."

Sherlock stood up abruptly, shocking John for a split second. And then frail arms were on either side of John's armchair and a-distractingly so-handsome face popped through John's personal bubble.

"Mr. Holmes," John squeaked, leaning back away from his patient.

Bony fingers grabbed at John's chin, tilting his head up so that he was gazing directly into Sherlock's eyes, his heart rate rising faster and faster as each second passed.

And then Sherlock's lips were upon him.

John gasped aloud and struggled, but Sherlock trapped him with his own body, his weight sinking onto John and a leg between John's thighs, rubbing promiscuously against his clothed groin.

Sherlock, with his hands on either side of John's face, harshly tried to pry open John's lips, but was met by cold defiance.

Eventually, John was able to free himself as he turned his head away from Sherlock's advances. He braced both his hands against Sherlock's chest and pushed the taller man away, completely flustered and disheveled.

Sherlock stumbled backwards a bit before meeting John's conflicted gaze with his own sharp and harsh eyes. "So what now?" Sherlock sneered. "Are you going to call for a patient transfer?"

John furrowed his eyebrows angrily at Sherlock and took deep, uneven breaths. "You don't fucking think I've dealt with sex addicts before? If I transferred a patient every time they came onto me, I'd be the lousiest doctor in the country. So no, I'm not going to call for a patient transfer."

"Very well then," Sherlock huffed. He then turned on his heels and headed for the door.

"Hey!" John called out. "Where the hell do you think you're going?"

"I've said everything I wanted to say today," Sherlock informed him. "So I'm ending our little session early today."

"In that case I want to see you here early tomorrow."

"Good day, John."

"Doctor Watson."

"_John._"

And as Sherlock opened the door, John called out once more. "And it's my older sister, not my younger."

Sherlock froze in his tracks. Then he stomped his foot. "Dammit! There's always something."

Maybe John almost smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

"I masturbated last night."

John scribbled away at his clipboard.

"Twice."

More scribbles.

"Does that make you feel uncomfortable, John?"

John paused and looked up at his patient. "Doctor Watson," he corrected Sherlock once more. "And no, I'm not uncomfortable. Do you want to talk about it?"

"Is there anything to talk about?"

"For instance, when you masturbated last night, what did you think about?"

"You."

"Be serious, Holmes."

Sherlock sneered. "Fine. I was thinking about the receptionist and how large her breasts are."

"Mmm-hmm…" John nodded in thought.

"It's too bad she's a lesbian."

John looked shocked. "How did you…?" But then he waved his hand around. "No, never mind. I'll request an alternate route for you around the building so you won't be tempted to look at her again."

"That won't be of any use," Sherlock stated. "I can find something sexually pleasing in practically anybody. Even you."

"Holmes, please be cooperative."

Sherlock groaned and sank back into his chair. "It's not my fault. I need…I need stimulant. Something. Anything. Heroin. A cock. Anything to get my mind off this…boring world."

"I see…" John scribbled something onto his clipboard. "So, that's what this all is, then? A way to defeat boredom? You take drugs and have sex to stimulate your mind?"

"That's about twenty seven percent of the reason, yes."

"Interesting. You know, Holmes, this isn't unusual. Many people who suffer from sexual addiction are the result of a need for productivity. They think it passes the time."

"It does."

"Yes, but for a certain amount of time," John agrees. "We need to find you some healthier way of stimulating your mind."

"You could always bring me bodies from the morgue."

John stifled a laugh. "Yeah, no, that's not going to happen."

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest. "Then I'll make sure to make your life a living hell."

"Oh I'm sure you've already done that." No sooner had the words left John's lips when he had started apologizing. "No, I'm sorry. That's a terrible thing for a doctor to say."

"I'm sure I'll get over it," said Sherlock in the most sarcastic tone John had ever heard.

* * *

A week later, Sherlock had been caught molesting a young alcoholic.

"Sherlock," John cried out in desperation. By now he had given up on trying to use proper addresses.

"I couldn't help it," Sherlock tried to defend himself. "He was just…there."

"I thought you were occupying yourself with that thousand piece puzzle."

"That took all of half an hour to solve," Sherlock snorted. "Dull."

John shook his head. "You can't keep doing this. It's like you're not even trying."

"I'm not trying," Sherlock snapped. "Why should I? I like sex. It's enjoyable. It takes up time. It's stimulating. Don't you like sex, John?"

"I don't think that's an appropriate-,"

"Don't you?"

"Well," John hesitated. "I…yes, I mean no. I mean, while it might feel pleasurable, it's unhealthy to-,"

"John, kindly shut up," Sherlock cut him off bluntly. "You can't deny it. You like sex. You love it. You're a man, after all. You love the feeling of a woman caressing your flesh. Or a man, if that's what you're into. Which you might be, I haven't quite been able to deduce that yet. You love the intimacy of two bodies joined into one. The obscene sounds coming from your partner that prove just how good in bed you are. The friction that causes immense body heat between the two of you-or more, if you're into that stuff-which you aren't, that much is obvious. No, you're more of a vanilla type of guy. Straight up lovemaking. You're the type to gently glide your hands across your lover's body, am I right? You like it slow and passionate. Painfully slow. You probably compliment your partners. Whisper dirty words into their ear about how good you're going to fuck them. Nice and easy. You won't come before they do, is that right?"

"Sherlock, please," John started.

"Why?" Sherlock inquired. "Am I making you uncomfortable?"

"I…" John hesitated. "Yes. You're crossing the line."

Sherlock sat back and stared at his therapist with rebellious, defiant eyes.

"I think that's enough time for today. I'll see you tomorrow." John's voice was equally bold and stiff.

* * *

At the end of two weeks, John had requested that Sherlock visit him every other day. He had filed a report that strictly said that Sherlock was not yet able to function in society and thus must remain an in-patient until further notice. Further more, he was not to enter the common room or engage in activity with other patients without full supervision.

Oh yes, John was going to make Sherlock regret not wanting to be clean.

"You're refusing to take your methadone."

"Tedious."

"And also dangerous," John pointed out. "I can see the toll it's beginning to take on your body. Withdrawal is always worse without a suppressant like methadone."

"And why don't they just give me the drugs in the first place? That way I never have to experience withdrawal."

John sighed. "I know it's painful."

"No you don't."

"Yes I do," John insisted. "I don't have to be an addict to know the pain of withdrawal."

Sherlock shook his head abruptly. "No. You don't…understand. The sheer agony of losing control over your entire body. Last night I…I was shaking and sweaty and…vomiting."

"Oh god," John gasped. "You're supposed to ring for someone when that happens!"

"Like hell I would," Sherlock sneered. "Like hell I'd lay there and subject myself to physical humiliation like that. Having total strangers wipe up my vomit and hold my hand like I'm a child."

John let out a deep sigh. "We're not strangers. You've been with us for two weeks. It's our job to help you and not judge you on whether you throw up or not. Lots of people here vomit every night. It's not disgusting."

"Is that what you told yourself?"

"What?" John asked, bewildered.

"Whenever you walked in on your sister drunk. Is that what you told yourself when you cleaned up her vomit? That it wasn't disgusting? And then you went and gave up on her because despite it all, you couldn't live with such a disgusting person?"

John blinked a few times. "Sherlock…this…this isn't about my sister. I'm not, I mean, I won't give up on you. No matter what. No matter how disgusting you think you are."

"You should," Sherlock suddenly hissed, jumping up to his feet so that John had to raise his head to meet his gaze. "You should just give up on me, _Doctor Watson_. You'd live such an easier life if you did."

"Sherlock," John called out, but it was too late. Sherlock had walked out of the room.

John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Never before had he had such a conflicting patient as Sherlock Holmes. Never anyone so intelligent, so arrogant, who hated himself so much.


	3. Chapter 3

"I'm calling your next of kin for a familial therapy session."

"Don't you fucking dare."

John fucking dared.

* * *

"Mr. Holmes," John greeted, holding out a hand for Mycroft to take.

The elder Holmes nodded and politely shook it. "Mycroft."

"Mycroft," John corrected himself, and he could feel Sherlock's gaze burning a hole into his back for immediately getting all cozy and first-name business with Mycroft while struggling to say Sherlock's first name for a week.

"Mrs. Holmes," John greeted Sherlock's mother next, a tall elderly woman with blonde curly hair pinned neat to her head. The curls, Sherlock had gotten from his mother. The dark brown hair, John suspected, was from his father. Speaking of which… "Will Mr. Holmes not be joining us?"

Mycroft and his mother exchanged hesitant glances before Mycroft spoke. "Our father doesn't usually meddle in affairs such as these. Neither do we, for that matter. But my mother and I have mutually agreed to once again become part of my idiot brother's life, just this one time."

"I see…" John nodded thoughtfully.

And when everyone was seated, the questioning began.

"So, Mycroft, do you want to tell us about the day Sherlock overdosed?"

Mycroft pressed his lips into a tight line, signaling that no, he did not want to talk about the day Sherlock overdosed, but if it would keep his brother out of trouble, he'd talk about it anyways. "Sherlock hadn't been responding to my messages. I was trying to land him a job. It's very difficult to hire him, you see, due to his…reputation. I was just about to offer him a job in America, away where nobody would recognize him or his terrible habits, but I was greeted with silence. I had suspected something was wrong after he hadn't responded for three days, so I went to check up on him. Lo and behold, there he was on the floor, his arm outstretched and a needle in his veins." He turned to his younger brother. "I thought you were dead."

Sherlock pursed his lips as if to show his indifference.

John nodded again. "It's difficult for a sibling to walk in on something like that."

"No shit."

"Sherlock," John warned. And then in a much softer tone, he asked, "and what were you thinking about that day? Did your family ever cross your mind?"

"Do they ever?" Sherlock mocked, obviously still sore about the whole I'm-inviting-your-family-to-rehab thing.

"Sherlock," his mother suddenly snapped. "You are behaving like a child."

Surprisingly, Sherlock slunk deep into his chair and quit the backtalk. "No…I wasn't really thinking about my family. I hadn't been getting Mycroft's messages because I was, well, basically using all week. It was bound to happen eventually."

"Don't say that," Mycroft insisted.

"What?" Sherlock sat back up straight. "It was, and you knew it, and you didn't do a damn thing to stop it until it had already happened!"

Mycroft was taken aback, his jaw dropped and his eyes wide.

John spoke up. "So, you had wanted your brother to help you before the incident?" he asked Sherlock.

Sherlock shook his head. "Of course not. I wish he'd mind his own damn business. But that means he can't come racing to my side every few months acting like he actually cares, because it's annoying."

John crossed one leg over the other as they bickered. Never before had he met such a strange family like the Holmes. Every once in a while, their mother would interfere, only to be drowned out her sons' voices rose louder and louder, to the point where John could hardly hear himself think.

"Hey!" He screamed out at the top of his lungs, and both Holmes boys instantly grew silent.

John rubbed the bridge of his nose. "You two. Sit. I want to talk with your mother."

Everyone noticed Sherlock twist his face at Mycroft one last time, but the action went unpunished as John changed the subject. "And you, Mrs. Holmes, how aware were you of your son's…other addictions."

"You mean the sex?"

"W-well, to put it bluntly…" John stammered. Mrs. Holmes was obviously not a fragile woman.

Sherlock's mother sighed deeply before responding. "I suppose I suspected it. When Mycroft told me Sherlock wouldn't be attending Christmas dinner in light of having a gentleman in company, everything was confirmed."

"And you…didn't do anything?" John questioned, raising an eyebrow.

Mrs. Holmes narrowed her eyes at the doctor. "Doctor Watson, I'm not sure if you heard my eldest son, but we Holmes typically do not meddle in each other's affairs. Sherlock might be promiscuous, but I am certain he knows how to keep safe."

"And have you?" John turned his attention back to Sherlock. "Been keeping safe, I mean?"

Sherlock let out a little pout. "Dull."

Both his mother and older brother let out a simultaneously horrid gasp.

"We have to get him tested!" Mycroft cried out.

John waved his hand around trying to calm the elder Holmes. "He was tested as soon as he entered the facility. All our sex addicts and needle users are. He is, by some godforsaken miracle, clean."

Mrs. Holmes let out a giant sigh of relief. "In that case," she said as she stood up. "I'll leave you to my son's wellbeing."

"Wh…" John started, and when Mycroft stood up as well, he cried out "wait! We're not finished yet!"

"I have a business to attend to," Mrs. Holmes excused herself.

"And I have a country to run," said Mycroft.

Sherlock sneered. "Oh, right. I almost forgot you're the bloody queen."

"Good day, little brother," Mycroft said with a firm smug on his face.

And with that being said, John and Sherlock were left alone in the room.

For a long time, John just sat there completely aghast, his mouth wide open and his eyebrows raised. Then he turned to Sherlock. "Your family…is quite interesting."

Sherlock snorted. "Just wait until you meet my father."

Perhaps John really didn't want to.

* * *

Never before had John had such a perplexing case as Sherlock Holmes. A proper boy from a rich, proper family. Nobody in his family seemed abusive, although he hadn't yet met Sherlock's father. Nothing screamed child molestation. There was nothing to indicate anything remotely triggering that would have turned Sherlock onto the path of self-destruction.

He was intelligent, too. He solved all the mind puzzles put before him in an instant. He could tell someone's marital status based on their shoes. He could hold an intelligent conversation and he spoke real, proper English, which was a nice change from John's usual slurred secondary school drop-outs.

It was such a shame to see a promising man hit rock bottom.

But Doctor Watson was going to drag him back up if it killed the both of them.


	4. Chapter 4

A week later, an incident occurred.

He called himself Victor Trevor. Said he was a friend of Sherlock Holmes. He wasn't even the least bit suspicious.

And perhaps he wouldn't have been if he and Sherlock hadn't been found in the loo swapping snow bombs between each other's mouths.

"You can't smuggle drugs in here," John hissed at him in a harsher tone than he had ever before.

"I didn't smuggle drugs," Sherlock protested, his hands already starting to shake. "He did. How was I supposed to know what he was up to?"

John shook his head violently. "Sherlock, this is a drug rehabilitation center. You are not the only addict here. If word gets out that drugs were in the facility-if you had been caught by someone other than a staff member-you could compromise the recovery of dozens of patients."

"Well it's a good thing nobody else caught us," Sherlock mocked him sarcastically.

John was fuming. "You know, I've had it up to here with your attitude. You're obviously not interested in anything but your sex and your drugs, so you can ahead and leave now."

To his amazement, Sherlock actually looked shocked.

"You're not allowed to attend therapy sessions while high," John reminded him. "So please," he gestured towards the door, "leave. You can come back when the rush is gone."

Surprisingly, Sherlock put up a fight. "I'm sorry," he suddenly apologized, something he had never done in all the weeks John had known him. Still, rules were rules, and John was definitely going to abide by them.

Sherlock left. Without causing a scene, he stood up, stared into his therapist's eyes, and left.

John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose before returning to his nice quiet desk to fill out some paperwork that he wouldn't have had to fill if Sherlock hadn't gone and screwed everything all up.

An hour later, his next patient arrived, a middle-aged woman who had recently gotten herself addicted to cocaine after the sudden death of her husband. Dull.

* * *

After John's last patient, he stretched himself out and gathered up his bag, perfectly content with the world.

When he exited his office, he nearly tripped over a mess of bones and dark curls.

"Jesus!" John exclaimed, stumbling forward but managing to catch himself before landing straight on his face.

The curled up body beneath him began to stir.

"Sherlock…?" John asked tentatively.

The body seemed to respond to the name.

Sherlock Holmes had fallen asleep outside his office. High out of his mind. He struggled to sit, but managed to flutter his eyes open to stare straight into John's eyes.

John crouched down before his patient and scanned the damage. The dilation had gone down in Sherlock's eyes. He grabbed Sherlock's wrist. And his pulse was slowing. Good. He wasn't high anymore.

John sighed. "Look…I'm sorry I kicked you out. That wasn't very professional of me. "

"I'm sorry," Sherlock croaked for the second time that day, his throat parched. "I'm sorry for using…I just…I couldn't help it."

John gave a gingerly smile, his hand still grasped around Sherlock's dangerously thin wrist. "I know. It was a trigger."

"I didn't even hesitate," Sherlock continued. "He just… showed up with his coke and I just took it like it didn't even bother me, and it didn't really. I missed it. I missed the thrill. The rush of getting high. And even now I…I still crave it." Suddenly, his hands were grasped firmly onto John's shoulders, fingers practically digging into John's skin. "Help me," he gasped out.

John nodded strictly. "I'm going to help you, Sherlock. You're going to get clean, and I'm going to make sure of that."

With that being said, Sherlock let his head fall into John's shoulder and cried.

* * *

_Additional Instructions for Sherlock Holmes: Supervision in the common rooms at all times. Regular checking for pornography magazines. Double methadone dose, once in the morning, once in the afternoon. Daily sobriety tests. Any and all visitors must be checked for possible drug hiding places before entering. _

What a chore.

Nobody talked to Sherlock. Nobody wanted to. And he wanted to talk to no one. He was rude and insufferable and an overall pain to be around. He had a habit of making nurses quit.

"One day I'm gonna fucking relapse and it'll be all your fault."

"Going to," Sherlock corrected the young heroin addict. "Gonna is not a word."

"I'm going to fucking kill you."

It took two nurses and John Watson himself to break the two of them apart and keep them from wringing each other's necks.

"Sherlock, that's your second fight in a week."

"He started it."

"And then you tried to kiss him!"

Sherlock only shrugged. "What can I say? Fights turn me on."

John nodded. "Okay. Okay, let's talk about this then."

"Talk about what?"

"What turns you on."

"Really?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Sure," John responded. "It's always good to get stuff like this off your chest. Go ahead, I won't judge."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair as if cautious. For a moment he only sat there and licked his lips a few times, contemplating his next move. Then he opened his mouth and words began to form from his perfectly shaped lips. "Well, fights. Fights turn me on. And…large breasts. No breasts are fine too, but I enjoy them nonetheless. Proper English is a real turn on, I can't get it up for someone who uses a double negative improperly. Toys. Of all sorts. And trust me, I'm not as vanilla as you, John. There's something wonderfully stimulating about trying to escape a pair of handcuffs. Anal stimulation. Sex while stoned. I don't mind crossdressers either."

Immediately once Sherlock had started talking, John realized this was a bad idea. He had done this with other sex addicts. It usually comforted them to let out their inner secrets without being judged. Usually it lifted a burden on their shoulders. John had once gotten a woman through a rather peculiar watersports addiction. She cried a lot, with good reason. It was an embarrassing situation and John had to admit that despite all he had been taught in school he was still uncomfortable, especially when she had admitted she wanted to pee on him, but he held together and she was discharged two weeks later without a trace of addiction.

Sherlock, however, didn't seem to be embarrassed at all. He rambled on for what seemed like years on end, practically boasting about things that made his cock twitch. It didn't help that the vulgar language was coming from such a handsome face. "Cumplay. Cumswapping and all of that. Suits, I like well-dressed men. I like being talked dirty to. In proper English, mind you. Voyeurism, exhibitionism, things like that. Smoothly shaven men can really get to me. And…doctors." Sherlock's eyes were suddenly boring holes into John's. John, in return, swallowed deeply. "I'll admit to having a bit of a medical fetish."

John blinked several times, feeling the heat rush to his cheeks. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I…thank you," he stuttered. "Did that…I mean, do you…feel any better?"

Sherlock snorted. "I feel great. In fact, I've got an erection right now."

Oh god.

"Thanks for your time," John spat out. "I think we've discussed all we need to discuss for today."

Sherlock eyed John curiously. "You going to take care of that?" He asked, gesturing towards John's only slightly noticeable crotch. "Or should I?"

"Good_bye_, Sherlock," John huffed out in frustration, crossing his legs as quickly as possible.

Sherlock only shrugged and stood up. "Suit yourself." And with that being said, he exited the room.

John groaned and dropped his head into his hands.


	5. Chapter 5

**trigger warning for references to rape**

* * *

"I'm sorry your girlfriend kicked you out."

"I don't even want to know how you knew that."

* * *

"How many times did you masturbate this week?"

"How many times did _you_ masturbate this week?"

"Sherlock, please cooperate," John sighed in exasperation.

"All right then. Five."

"Only five? I'm proud of you."

* * *

"Are you ready to talk about the underlying causes of your addictions?" John asked one day. Sherlock Holmes was a strange patient. Usually, John would start with the premise of the addiction and decipher how a patient's life had started spiraling downwards in the first place. From there, he would chronologically walk the patient through the addiction and make him or her visualize the disastrous changes in their lives. Sherlock, however, was not an average patient. He had always refused to discuss how his addictions came to be. They talked about the impact his addictions had on his family, and how Sherlock could find some ways to stimulate his mind in a healthy manner, but never the origins of the addictions themselves.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. "It's hardly a chicken or the egg scenario," he began. "The drugs came first."

"How old were you?" John asked.

"Fifteen."

"I see."

"I started with the cigarettes. Marijuana. I tried cocaine a few times. I was still a virgin when I started using."

"And when did the uh…sex, start?"

Sherlock cocked his head to the side and gave John a small smirk. "Victor Trevor."

John gave Sherlock a funny look. "You mean…?"

Sherlock shrugged. "We went to school together. He introduced me to the best drugs money could buy. Ecstasy. LSD. He was my favorite drug dealer. For my sixteenth birthday, he snuck me into the back storage of a club and gave me my first shot of heroin. While I was high, he…" he paused for a moment, his voice trailing off as if he was getting lost in the memory.

John gave a short nod. "I understand."

In response, Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees and his fingertips pressed against one another. His eyes grew cold and serious and John could swear he felt a chill sweep across the entire room. Sherlock's mouth curled into an almost menacing grin and his soft pink lips parted slowly to speak in a deep, sultry voice. "It was the best experience I'd ever had. That was also the day I found out I had a kink for ropes."

John's breath hitched in the back of his throat. "And did he…often?"

Sherlock chuckled a bit, sitting back straight and crossing one leg over the other. "Of course. He started to sell me."

"You…?" John raised an eyebrow. "You mean you…?"

"At first, it was just to spite Mycroft." Sherlock gave another short laugh. "Can you imagine the look on his face when he found out his brother was a prostitute? Priceless. But in the end, I had no use for money and my…clients…were quite dull, so I quit the business. It was much better to do it for free and with whomever I chose."

John swallowed deeply. He had heard traumatizing experiences before. Familial abuse. Gangbang rapes. He once had a patient who had become pregnant by her father. He had met prostitutes and drug dealers alike, but they had all felt ashamed. Sherlock seemed to boast about his lifestyle. There wasn't a single tint of regret flickering in his eyes. It was frightening, to say the least.

"You look disconcerted," Sherlock pointed out blatantly.

John cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "No, no of course not. It's not the first story I've heard. Remember, I'm here to help, not to judge." He cleared his throat again, as if something were stuck in it. "Rape tends to trigger a lot of addictions."

"Oh but it was perfectly consensual."

Taken aback, John furrowed his eyebrows deeply. "You…you were high!"

"Does that matter?" Sherlock asked, legitimately curious.

"Wha…" John started. "Well, of course it does!"

"Interesting. I was under the assumption that regardless of the state either party is in, if they each say 'yes', and then by any chance happen to meet on a regular basis to engage in sexual activity for nine years, it counts as consent."

"Right," John nodded, picking up his pen and scribbling hastily onto his clipboard. "I'm diagnosing you with Stockholm syndrome."

Sherlock only gave him a disapproving look.

* * *

"Your progress thus far has been excellent," John pointed out as he read over the messy charts sprawled across his lap. "You've gained weight, you've stopped subconsciously rubbing your arm as if a needle were there, and you've stopped molesting other patients entirely. I think we're ready to cut your methadone administrations, and I'll request that you only meet with me twice a week. We can start to discuss your plans for the outside world and, with any luck, you'll be out of here in a month."

To John's surprise, Sherlock looked absolutely horrified. He stood up abruptly and shouted out a resounding "no!" His booming voice startled John, who nearly jumped out of his skin.

Their eyes met for a moment, both pairs wide and frightened, before John sighed deeply and nodded. "All right. Come, sit down Sherlock."

Sherlock obeyed, albeit wearily.

John pinched the bridge of his nose momentarily. "It's normal for a patient to become attached to his therapist, so you don't need to feel alone."

"I'm not attached," Sherlock insisted.

"All right, all right," John gave in. "You're not attached. What do you want, then?"

The anxious look in Sherlock's eyes made John's heart sink ever so slightly. "I…" Sherlock started, as if contemplating exactly how to word himself. "I can't do it."

"Yes you can."

"No, I can't," Sherlock persisted harshly. "Not…not without you. I can't…I can't talk to anyone else. I won't be able to function. I'll go straight back to the drugs. I can't keep…clean without you."

John gave him a sympathetic smile. "Look, Sherlock, you're doing so well. You've progressed so far. You have to understand, I'm just a therapist. Our time together is limited, and it's come to the point where I know in my heart you're ready to face the world. I'm going to call for a sober companion to stay with you for a while after you're released so you won't feel alone."

"No," Sherlock disagreed. "No, no it has to be you. I won't have anyone else."

"Why not?"

"Because…" Sherlock hesitated. "You're not boring. Everyone else is dull. Stupid. Ordinary. I became an addict in the first place to escape the ordinary, and you're just going to send me back there with the idiots. I'll be back to square one and this entire charade will have been a waste."

John exhaled sharply and gave his patient a small nod. "I understand."

"No!" Sherlock screamed out. "No you don't! You don't understand! You've never been an addict! You don't understand what it feels like to lose control over your entire existence!"

"Sherlock," John warned. "Sherlock, please calm down." He reached forward to grab Sherlock's wrists firmly, prohibiting any sort of jerky or potentially violent outbreaks. "Can I talk to you for a moment? I want to tell you something. Something a bit personal. Are you okay with that?"

Sherlock blinked a few times, his expression a bit stunned, before slowly nodding.

John gave out another exhale. "I…I am an addict. Or, was, I should say. You have to trust me when I say that I truly do understand what you're going through."

"You're a liar."

"I'm really not," John insisted. "It was a long time ago, I'm afraid, but the memories are still etched into my mind, painfully, like they're burning through my skull. See, when I was a child, I was a tad overweight. I suppose it wasn't my fault really, my parents made me eat healthy and I really wasn't that fond of sweets, but our family had poor metabolism and my father's side of the family had a thyroid problem. It wasn't anything serious, and I wasn't morbidly obese, but it was enough for the kids at school to pick on me."

"You developed anorexia," Sherlock deduced coldly.

John nodded slowly. "All through secondary school. My parents tried everything. Camps, rehab centers, all sorts of therapy, but it wouldn't work. I was addicted to the feeling of hunger. To the purging. I did lose control of my life, Sherlock, so don't you ever for a second think you're alone in this. And you know, if it's one thing I learned from my experiences, it's that we are never alone. Do you understand?"

For the longest time, they both sat there in utter silence, John's hands still firmly wrapped around Sherlock's bony wrists, fingers unintentionally taking his pulse. And then Sherlock parted his heart-shaped lips to let out a firm "yes. I understand."

"Good. So I don't ever want to hear any more of this 'I can't do it' crap, okay?"

"…okay, John."


	6. Chapter 6

John was not the only therapist who slept at the rehabilitation center. There were several others, including an alcoholic expert by the name of Anderson who was shunned from his mother's home three years ago and hadn't been looking for a flat since, and Greg Lestrade, the group therapist who was in the same boat as John after just having been kicked out by his former wife.

So no, John was not the only one to make use of the faculty residential area. He was, however, the only one designated to be Sherlock's personal therapist.

It did not take Sherlock very long to figure out where John slept. He was, after all, an intelligent man when he wasn't being a massive dickhead (as slowly recovering sex addict Irene Adler often called him).

Sherlock snuck out of his room late one night, after all was quiet and the center was still. He had been sexually frustrated for the past three months and, after some serious contemplation, decided relieve himself by means other than his hand.

John's room was locked. Typical. Too bad it was a basic lock. Nothing that even remotely managed to challenge Sherlock's mind. The genius was a bit disappointed at that.

He walked in on John sleeping deep and sound, eyes lightly closed and lips slightly parted. His short military style blond hair lay tussled around his pillow and his collarbone shone clearly peeking out from underneath the covers. He wasn't wearing an undershirt, which was completely understandable as this side of the rehab center wasn't famous for its glorious air conditioning.

John shifted in his sleep a bit and Sherlock involuntarily licked his lips immensely slow.

It's didn't take long before Sherlock was climbing into bed on top of his doctor, straddling John with long limbs on either side of his body.

Sherlock bowed his head down to plant a soft kiss at John's temple. The action caused John to stir again, shifting so that he was flat on his back and facing straight at Sherlock. In return, Sherlock kissed him again, right on the lips, once, twice, and then again much harder than the rest.

John's face twitched a little, his mouth opening slightly more. Sherlock seized the opportunity to slip his tongue past his therapist's lips, skillfully running his appendage all over the inner crevices of John's mouth.

John awoke immediately.

His eyes suddenly wide and full of nothing but pale flesh and dark curls, he let out a small gasp and froze on the spot. Sherlock's response was to grab his face with both hands and force their lips together, causing John to squirm beneath him.

Sherlock began to roll his hips into John's, slowly at first, before building up speed until he was practically rutting against John's groin, producing quiet yet lewd moans as he went.

John began to panic. Being underneath, he was at a disadvantage in terms of strength, but he still struggled in Sherlock's grasp.

Sherlock dropped his head to mouth at the side of John's throat, leaving John the opportunity to grab Sherlock's shoulders firmly and hiss out "Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?" as quietly as possible.

In response, Sherlock lifted his head to stare at John, his eyes blazing with lust and delusion in the most frightening combination John had ever seen. "John," he answered in a raspy voice. "I can't stand it any longer. I want you." He then went back to licking trails across John's collarbone.

John forcibly managed to push Sherlock away by the shoulders, more angry than he had probably been in a very long, long time. "You have to stop."

"No," Sherlock refused, showing his defiance by rolling his hips against John's once more. John couldn't help the gasp that escaped his mouth. It was a natural reaction, after all.

After that, Sherlock took the liberty to reach underneath the covers and down into John's trousers, causing the doctor to cry out in mortification. "Sssh," Sherlock commanded into John's ear. "You wouldn't want to wake up the whole center, would you?"

"Stop!" John hissed as quietly as possible, pushing against Sherlock's chest, but by then Sherlock had slipped his hand down into John's pants, fingers immediately seeking John's involuntarily growing erection. What a traitor of a cock.

John exhaled sharply as Sherlock jerked his hand, the force John put against Sherlock's chest slowly fading as he lost the willpower to struggle. "Sherlock," he trembled, fingers clenching into the fabric of his patient's shirt. "Stop." But the word carried no meaning.

"You can't…we can't…" John was beginning to lose his ability to form proper sentences. He struggled a bit more under Sherlock's hold, but as Sherlock hurriedly stroked his cock, he found he could not prevail in this fight.

With one hand on John's cock, Sherlock took to grinding his hips against John's leg, his pace fast and animalistic. It was a rather frightful scene, to see someone so rough and wild, and perhaps John began to shake at the sight with eyes wide and terrified.

John too to draping an arm over his face, completely helpless and not particularly wanting to watch Sherlock abuse his body. He cringed when soft lips touched his bare shoulder and teeth grazed against his flesh but did not dare uncover his eyes. He could not deny that Sherlock's hand upon his cock felt rather good, but it was all wrong nonetheless and it took all of John's willpower to not buck his hips up into Sherlock's hand.

John came first. He couldn't stop his body from shaking as ropes of semen erupted from his cock to stain the covers of his bedsheets. He couldn't help but give out a small cry of mixed pleasure and anguish. Still he did not remove his face from his elbow.

Sherlock came in his pants silently, his entire body stiffening through the imminent orgasm and John could, horrifyingly, feel the sticky substance soaking through Sherlock's trousers and onto John's shin.

Hot and out of breath, Sherlock bent forward to suck on John's collarbone for a moment before lingering over John's lips as if having the audacity to ask for permission to kiss him once more.

John would not have it.

Humiliated and terrified beyond comprehension, John's voice trembled in the dark. "Leave," he whispered. It was a simple order.

Sherlock obeyed.

He swung both legs to one side and stood up as if ignoring the sticky mess in his pants. Then, without ever once looking back, he left, leaving John alone in his room a quivering, violated mess.


	7. Chapter 7

"I'm requesting a patient transfer."

Sherlock's head immediately snapped up to stare his therapist right in the eyes.

John still couldn't bear to make eye contact, his gaze gravitating directly towards his own shoes.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock tried to apologize, but John held out his hands to stop him, indicating that he didn't want to hear any sort of apologies.

"I've decided that, because it was two am and you were probably tired and stressed out by the reduced dosage of your methadone, I'm not going to report you. I will, however, transfer you to another specialist for getting too personal and invading my privacy."

And perhaps a glimpse of panic flashed across Sherlock's eyes. "I'm sorry," he tried again. "It won't happen again. I was frustrated, that's all."

John shook his head. "Regardless, you broke our confidentiality agreement. You, without a second thought, used and violated me without my consent and for that, I'm afraid you can't go unpunished."

"But I-"

"_No_, Sherlock. You _raped_ me. I should be reporting you to the police right now."

"You've been violated before by other patients."

"Yeah, the worse they've done is try to stick a hand down my trousers! Sneaking into my room is illegal in the first place, rutting up against me without my permission and coming in your pants took the cake!"

Sherlock's hands clenched into fists upon his lap. "If you transfer me, I promise you one thing. I'll get out of here. I'll pretend to sober up so well, they'll have to let me go, and once I make it to the outside world, I'll speedball so hard I'll probably die."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me!" Sherlock shouted, standing up abruptly. For the first time that day, John snapped his eyes to his patient's face, gazing up into Sherlock's irate eyes. "The only reason I'm trying to get clean is for you, John!"

Utterly surprised, John parted his lips as if meaning to say something.

"Because I don't want you to feel like you've failed again!"

John let out a deep puff of air and shook his head slowly. "All right, look, please just…sit down."

"But you already have," Sherlock continued without listening to John's command. "You've already failed because I've failed." And with that, he collapsed back into his chair with his face dropping into his hands. "Like you've failed with your sister. I'm just like her and you can't do anything about it. I'm never going to get clean. And now you're giving up on me."

"Sherlock…" John started to reach for Sherlock's hands but quickly retreated after sharp images of those hands violating his flesh flashed across his mind. He sighed deeply to regain his composure. He wanted to be angry. He wanted to_ not_ be angry. Sherlock was a sex addict. His actions were understandable, albeit not justifiable. John had been attacked by patients before. Sure, none of them had broken into his room to do so, but perhaps there was a first time for everything. This was his job. He got paid to fix people. To fix Sherlock. "I'm not…I'm not giving up on you. I'm just…" Another sigh. "You're right. You aren't going to get clean. Not with that mentality."

Sherlock raised his head from his hands to glance at his therapist.

"You can't get clean for someone else," John explained. "It just doesn't work that way. Ultimately, you have to want to be clean for yourself. So you can be happy, not anyone else. Understand? Don't you want to get clean? For your sake?"

"I…" Sherlock began, hesitating as if finding the question immensely difficult to answer. His eyes darted around the room as if the answer was hidden between the bookshelves or underneath Harry's letters to John. "Yes," he finally said. "I do. I want to be clean. I want to be able to think clearly. I want to stimulate my mind without hallucinating. I want to recover, John. But I want you to help me. It can't be anybody else."

John pressed his lips into a tight line. "Sherlock, you can't become dependent on me."

"But you're the only one who can help me."

"Boy, you're really stubborn, aren't you?" John crossed his arms over his chest.

Sherlock mimicked his movements. "My mum used to tell me that was my best redeeming quality."

John snorted. And then he sighed once more. He couldn't believe this. He should be throwing Sherlock into the streets by now, or at least a jail cell. He should be disgusted. And yet, when he looked into Sherlock's eyes, he couldn't believe the amount of remorse he saw. Sherlock, who had probably never apologized full-heartedly for anything in his life, showed regret. And if this wasn't progress, John didn't know what was. Sherlock was delicate right now. A wrong move could send him spiraling towards his destruction yet again. On the other hand, the right move could fix him once and for all. John had never been so conflicted.

"All right, fine. I…suppose…if, and only if you promise to keep your hands off from now on…I won't transfer you." The way Sherlock's eyes lit up like a child who had just been promised a treat was perhaps the most magical thing John had ever seen. This, it was very clear, was Sherlock's turning point. "But you have to actually act like you want to recover. Yes, that means being serious during group therapy."

And Sherlock groaned.

"And I swear to high hell if you so much as look at me inappropriately one more time I will not hesitate to report you."

* * *

"My name is Janice and I am addicted to hallucinogenics"

"My name is Charles and I am an alcoholic."

"My name is Stephen and I am addicted to pornography."

"My name is Sherlock and I am addicted to sniffing your mother's panties."

"Oh for God's sake!" Lestrade cried out in frustration.

* * *

"I thought you said you were going to play nicely in group therapy," John pointed out sternly.

"I was. I was being completely serious," Sherlock defended himself.

"Telling everyone that you're addicted to sniffing their mother's undergarments is extremely offensive and not in the least bit serious. Did you know one of the patients in that therapy session was sexually abused by his mother?"

"Oh of course," Sherlock said. "He burst into tears the moment I said it. I deduced his gynophobia when he flinched every time a female spoke or walked past him. Extremely subtle winces, nobody would have noticed it unless they were looking for it. Typically gynophobics are the product of abusive mothers."

"So you said it just to torture him."

"For god's sake, of course not! Well, yes. But I was also being completely serious."

"Sherlock," John warned.

Sherlock flashed him a mischievous grin. "Oh, I never told you? I happen to be quite fond of the smell of used pants. Fewer things turn me on than the essence of a woman. Or a man, though men don't tend to smell quite as nice."

"Oh god, Sherlock," John groaned. "You are absolutely insufferable."

Sherlock only smirked.


	8. Chapter 8

"Are you ready to discuss your plan for the outside world?"

"No."

"Sherlock, we're not having this conversation again. You know you can't stay here forever."

Silence.

"All right, tell you what. Your brother had arranged for you a job at the local morgue. It's just a small janitor-style occupation, but promotions are possible and you'll be around dead bodies all day. You said you enjoy dead bodies, right?"

Still no response.

"Your brother has also purchased a flat for you not too far from the morgue. I've visited the flat myself and I can tell you that it is a very safe and cozy environment where I'm sure you won't feel compelled to relapse."

"I'm going to kill him."

"Sherlock," John warned him. "If you keep threatening to murder your brother I will be forced to label you as a threat and refer you to the psychiatric ward."

Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Please," John sighed in exasperation. "You're acting like a child."

"And you're acting like my mother."

"Well stop acting like a child and I'll stop acting like your mother."

Sherlock pouted.

John rolled his eyes.

* * *

"I want you and your sober companion to visit me once a week. Then I want to see you once a week for a month or two after your sober companion leaves."

"Only once a week?"

"An argument can be made for twice."

"Deal. I'll have Mycroft pay you double."

"For God's sake, Sherlock."

* * *

After five months of rehab, Sherlock became a free man. The bracelet that labeled him as a sex and drug addict was cut off like a chain and Sherlock could really feel anew again.

His sober companion was Mike Stanton, a portly man with no particularly distinguishing features. Excruciatingly dull.

"Sherlock, will you please eat something?"

"No."

And Mike never forced him.

"Sherlock, you know I have to give you a sobriety test today."

"No point. I am irrevocably clean."

Mike didn't even know what 'irrevocably' even meant.

"Mike is a good sober coach," John tried to explain during their counseling session.

Sherlock heaved the greatest groan. "He is the dullest creature in existence."

"Two more weeks, okay? Just two more weeks with him and you'll be on your own. Do you think you could handle that?" John asked.

Sherlock gave him a pained look, as if just thinking of Mike Stanton drove a million daggers through his heart. "I suppose I'll have to."

And he did.

Sherlock passed his probation with flying colors.

* * *

Three days after Mike Stanton left, a call came to the mobile phone of Mycroft Holmes.

His younger brother had been discovered in a drug house batshit high off his horse.

* * *

Sherlock was immediately fired from the morgue.

"I don't believe you!" John cried out. After hearing the news from Mycroft, John had requested to see Sherlock immediately after he had recovered from his high. " I can't believe you did this! We worked so hard on this! After everything I've invested into you, after all the progress you've made and you've gone and compromised everything!"

"I didn't compromise anything," Sherlock spat out. "Whatever the fuck I do, I do on my own terms. Your job is done, you shouldn't have any right to interfere in my life anymore!"

"You told me you wanted to be clean! You wept and groveled on your knees and begged me to fix you!"

"Spur of the moment. Peer pressure."

"I'm just trying to help you!" John shouted back.

"I don't want your help. I don't need any help! I was fucking fine on my own until you walked into my life!"

"Fine? Your brother found you unconscious on the floor of your flat! With a fucking needle in your arm! You almost died!"

"Well maybe I wanted to!"

Both parties instantly went silent.

"I…" Sherlock started. "I wanted an escape. This world is so dull. Its inhabitants are all idiots. I had no one. Without you. Without Mike, however hideously boring he was. I was just…lonely. I had nobody of equal intelligence to talk to anymore. I thought I could handle it, but the truth is, in the end, you're my only reason to stay clean, John."

Another period of prolonged silence dawned upon them. That was a love confession. Or, as close as Sherlock would come to admitting it, at least. And both of them knew it.

And then, John gave a short nod. "Okay then. What if I made you a proposition?"

"What kind of proposition?" Sherlock asked, legitimately intrigued

"Well, technically for as long as I'm your therapist and you're my patient, any sort of relationship between us would cause me to lose my job. However, once you've been completely freed, nobody will be allowed to meddle in our business. So, how about this? You continue attending therapy sessions. I'll continue monitoring your progress and, when I deem you ready, no shortcuts, I'll release you from my care. From there, if you still wish me to be a part of your life, we can exchange personal mobile numbers. Until then you are not allowed to touch me, ask me personal questions, or so much as gaze into my eyes longingly."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as if bewildered. "Seriously?"

John shrugged. "When am I ever not serious?"

Suddenly, Sherlock pounced, hands supporting his body weight on either side of John's armchair. He bent forward so that his face was mere centimeters away from his therapist's. "Are you sure?" he asked in a gruff voice. "Because I tend to become very possessive over what is mine. If you truly wish to become my lover, I will not let you go. If you ever try to leave me, I will lock you in my closet and tie a collar around your neck for as long as we both shall live."

"Oy," John warned, both hands on Sherlock's chest to push him away. "You're still my patient and I'm still your doctor. Now sit down and stop hitting on me."

Sherlock reluctantly pulled back to sit across from his therapist.

"Now then," John began with a clearing of his throat. "Explain to me in your own words how you felt about Mycroft having to pick you up from the drug house."

"Of course, _Doctor Watson_."

* * *

**END.**


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